Meanwhile in Hal's Room
by PretentiousNarwhal
Summary: Hello! My name is Hamish Watson-Holmes. This is the rather invasive description of the best (and worst) 6-8 months of my life up until this point. [AU. Post-Reichenbach. Rated T for swearing.]
1. Prologue

**A/N:** I do not own BBC Sherlock or any characters from the series. I am certainly not the first person to come up with the idea of Hamish, however I did try to keep my ideas as original as possible.

I am not a people person and I'll never pretend to be. We, Holmes', aren't exactly known for our social skills. We're rude, impatient, and possess a remarkable ability to hail cabs at a moment's notice. We also have a keen eye for detail; so much so it usually sparks harsh resentment in others.

At least Sherlock and I are like that.

I try to be patient, loving, and understanding like John because I know Sherlock always wanted that (though he never actually said it), but I'm not. Honest to God I try, but people are just such insufferable twats that I can't take it and I snap at them.

As a whole my life is good. Our life is good. We officially moved to a posh, little house in Chelsea when I was three, but we still rent 221B Baker Street and stay there during cases sometimes. When we walk around town people recognize us. Paparazzi follow fairly regularly. Buggers. It makes being antisocial much more difficult than it should be.

Growing up in Chelsea is its own reward (and its own punishment, for that matter). Living in Chelsea automatically equals money, power and social status (for the record, I don't particularly give a shit about any of these things). I attended a relatively expensive private school for boys, but there I was considered "poor" because I don't drive a Lexus or have a summer home in Prague (and for the record, I'm not old enough to drive). (I'm in college right now, mostly because I'm a genius. In England you usually start college at 16.) If you don't live in Chelsea we all just seem like a bunch of snooty rich people. Some of the time, you'd be right.

I don't judge people based on how much money they have. I base my opinion of them on how gargantuan their level of idiocy is. I honestly think it's fairer for everyone this way. They are assessed on their frequency of stating ignorant and/or totally brainless comments and I am assessed (negatively, more often than not) based on my reaction to their short-sightedness.

By now you're probably thinking 'yes, yes, this is all very nice, but just who the hell are you?' Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hamish Watson-Holmes. My parents are Dr. John Watson and Sir Sherlock Holmes. Welcome to my life.

**A/N:** I will repost chapter 1 as soon as I am done writing chapter 2.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long to get up. Like I said in the prologue, I wanted to finish chapter 2 before I posted this.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

I jog lightly down the stairs and head for the kitchen. I stand idly for a moment and decided on just what to do. I settle on opening fridge number two. Fridge number one is Sherlock's designated area for storing petri dishes, various detached body parts, as well as any other experiments he's in the midst of.

Hmm… a lonesome apple, a Tupperware™ container with what _looks_ to be spinach with vinaigrette in it (but who's to say for sure, I mean, it _is_ my family, after all) and – oh, would you look at that! – two and a half cheese slices. With mold. You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that John hasn't done the shopping yet.

Boring.

John's taken a colleague's shift at the hospital so he'll be later than usual and Sherlock's at Bart's so that means it's Hamish's One Man Party to End All Parties.

Excellent. Superb, even.

Since you're probably curious, I call my parents by their first names because that's what they decided was best back in the day when I was too small to understand what fingers are, and to be honest I agree. If I had the option to change it, I wouldn't. It saves so much time and energy when it comes to conversation with other people. There's no confusion as to what synonym of 'Dad' applies to which parent. Everyone knows exactly who I'm talking about. It's simply marvelous.

Like Sherlock, boredom with me is never evaded for long. Xenon, my Chihuahua, is asleep on the couch exactly as I left her an hour ago and Mercury, the house cat, is nowhere in sight.

Predictable.

I was awarded the privilege of naming both of our animals. I picked Xenon for my dog because xenon is a gas and she's a Chihuahua and therefore very light (she was also the runt of her litter). In addition, I think it's a pretty name for a girl.

I picked Mercury for our cat for several reasons. She's silvery grey in colour, she's lethal in large doses and prolonged exposure to her drives you insane. Don't believe me? One afternoon I was honestly minding my own business when Mercury decided to take out an unspoken vendetta against me. Maybe it was because I didn't clean her litter box correctly, maybe it was just for fun. The point is she clawed me half insane.

It got to the point where I was hiding out on the sofa with the colander on my head and a cushion in hand as preparation for impending doom. Unfortunately, that was the moment Sherlock decided to walk in. Without thinking I shrieked an unintelligible battle cry and flung the cushion at him without mercy. The only response I received was a stern look and a "What on Earth are you doing?" to which my response was (with as much innocence as possible) "Mercury's trying to kill me".

Anyway, back to my perpetual boredom. For no reason at all I lay down in the middle of the study. It's dusk and no lights are on. The ceiling and I engage in a staring contest. I lose. I sit up glance at the sofa. I lie back and roll toward it because, well, why not? No one's home to judge me for it. I watch the blackness underneath the sofa for a moment or two until something abruptly bats my face.

And so the battle resumes. I take a Spider Man-like pose on the carpet peering into the darkness. My opponent swats twice at me, but misses by a just a few millimeters. I hiss at her; she hisses back. It's fun cursing in cat-language.

She emerges from her hideout and hisses again. She climbs upon the sofa, one paw ready to slash my flesh to bits when the opportunity presents itself. I stand up straight and assume the ever clichéd Karate Kid position. I let out a (most likely politically incorrect) "HAI-YA!" just as the lights flick on. Mercury takes off.

Startled I turn toward the entrance to the hall where John is leaning against the wall with a bag of groceries in his hand. "What are you doing?"

I press my lips together and sigh. "I don't really know."

"Mmm," he says and nods a little. "Guess what you get to do."

I place my hands on either side of my face and gasp dramatically. "Help you bring the shopping in?"

"And you get to put it away!"

I throw my arms in the air "Yeah!" Oh, sarcasm! How wondrous thou art. I let my arms flop. "How long were you standing there, anyway? I didn't even hear you come inside."

"Only a moment."

We finish with the groceries; the fridge contains a much wealthier bounty of food that it possessed earlier.

"Right. What kind of pasta do you want?" John asks me as he holds up a box of spaghetti and a box of penne.

I poke the spaghetti and begin preparing the stove.

"You going to help me tonight?"

"Sure. Why not? I'm already done my homework, I'm bored out of my mind and I've nothing better to do. And honestly, it's this or more psychological warfare with that cat of yours."

"I think we both know who was beating who." He gives me a look that says "not you, kid. Not in a million years".

"Ha… Ha ha. Oh, my sides. They're splitting. My gut is busting, John. My knee is bleeding from being slapped so hard."

"Aren't we cheeky today? Got any idea where Sherlock is?"

"Last time I saw him he said he was going to Bart's, but that was, like, two hours ago. He could be anywhere by now."

We continue on with dinner preparations. We talk about our day and laugh about silly things. The usual.

In general I get along really well with my parents. I don't argue with them unless it's for a good reason and I'm sure I'm right. I actually think they're pretty cool. Most fifteen-year-olds wouldn't say that, but then, I'm not most fifteen-year-olds. I have a different relationship with each parent, and I don't mean just a Mum versus Dad kind of thing.

Sherlock is my idol. I want to be just like him, except with better social skills. He's most fatherly when he's in case mode because he's trying to mentor and shape me to be the best detective I can be. If the period between cases goes on too long he becomes difficult to be around, though. He's loud, hyperactive, rude and generally annoying. Lots of yelling and antiquities shattered beyond repair.

John is like a friend and like a mum. He understands that I need my space and that I'm an introvert. He's pretty 'lax about most things, but he's a parent first which I respect. He does the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning and helps me with my homework on occasion (usually when I need someone to bounce essay ideas off of). We laugh and joke around a lot. We spend a frightening amount of time giggling like little children when we should be figuring out who killed the guy in the bathtub. He can even use jokes teenagers use without sounding cheesy or like he's trying too hard.

I love them both equally, of course. I feel as though I take them for granted because I usually forget that many kids aren't lucky enough to have parents who are around and care like I do. Some kids pick on me for having two dads as if I had any say in it. The way I see it is why would I want a mum and a dad when I have _two spectacular dads_ doing a better job of caring for me than many conventional couples would (and do, for that matter)? Answer: I don't. Having two dads is, by society's standards, an unusual situation even now, but it's normal for me. It's tough sometimes, being a Watson-Holmes, but I don't know or want it to be any other way.

I sit across from John with my bowl of pasta and sauce. I cut it up because I find trying to eat full length pieces of spaghetti requires more pointless exertion than I'm willing to put out. I try to shovel a fork-full into my mouth, but the noodles make a desperate jump for the bowl. "It's too slippery!" I complain.

"That's what she said," John adds without missing a beat (see? I told you he's cool).

By the time I process his statement I've gotten the remaining noodles in my mouth and I almost spray them across the table. I chew and swallow with difficulty.

"Don't make me laugh while I'm eating!" I protest.

"I'm sorry, Hamish, but you walked right into that one."

I just smile and shake my head. He grins triumphantly. "Don't apologize, that was excellent."

Just then we hear the door slam.

Sherlock.

Sherlock walks in slowly. He gives John a kiss on the head and ruffles my hair.

"You want anything to eat?" John asks him.

"No, thank you."

"Yes, you're welcome," I add quickly. He gives me a look, but I continue anyway. "I helped make dinner tonight and you're going to taste the pasta of my labor whether you like it or not."

After a moment he reluctantly says "Alright."

He eats a bowl-full and gives us as close to a compliment as he (being Sherlock) can manage. I take his and John's plate to the sink because it's my turn to do the dishes. Sherlock follows closely with his. He says softly to me "Did you notice anything in the sink at the last crime scene?"

I think for a moment before I respond. "N-No… I don't think so…"

He smiles widely. "Excellent." He walks away without another word, presumably heading to his loffice, as I like to call it (his lab/office).

"Well, alrighty, then," I add after he walks away and commence the washing of the dishes.

I finish in about five minutes or so. I then retire to my bedroom to film and edit a video for my YouTube channel. I started doing YouTube about a year ago because this one asshole in my science class just couldn't let go of the fact that I have two dads and insisted upon bringing it up every time he saw me. It wasn't that he was teasing me that bothered me so much, it was more his painfully overused insults. I went home one afternoon and used my web cam to bitch and bitch about it until I felt better. I uploaded it because I didn't actually mention his name and I figure it couldn't hurt to clear up some misconceptions about myself and my parents. Everything since is history. I upload a bitch-rant once or twice a week depending on my unpredictable schedule. I upload more informal "follow me around" type videos on my second channel.

Since I know you'd like to know, my main channel is called MeanwhileInHalsRoom and my second channel is called HalsRoomTake2.

Now I'm sure you're all like "what's with 'Hal'? That doesn't sound much like Hamish at all!"

When I was trying to come up with my channel's name John and I were discussing what kind of nickname I might have that isn't 'Ham' (because MeanwhileInHamsRoom just sounds silly). He was like "You could be 'Hal', like 'Prince Hal'." I said "You think me a prince, father?" all dramatic and Shakespearian-like. I thought about it for a while and decided it sucked less than anything else I could come up with, so I used it and I stuck.

Today's video is about the sexual pasta from earlier this evening. After a profuse amount of editing, goes as follows:

"Good day, everyone. It's Hamish… As if anyone else makes videos on this channel…

"So today I'd like to discuss pasta. I love pasta, I think it's a wonderful invention of either Italian or Chinese origin. The whole issue of where it comes from is hugely debatable, but this isn't a CGPGrey video, this is a MeanwhileInHalsRoom video so you better believe some hardcore, pointless complaining on an unusual topic is about to go down!… As well as some major run-on sentences…

"So, I was home alone this evening and naturally I had an intense Kung-Fu battle with my evil cat to pass the time until one or both of my parents got home. John managed to scare the sh*t out of me when he came in because, if you didn't know, he's not just a doctor but a ninja-pirate from space as well."

I'm required to bleep out any and all curse words from my videos because if I don't I'm forced to donate a pound to swear jar for each profane word that exits my mouth. I swear a lot in videos and even though I live in Chelsea, I personally am not that wealthy.

"But I digress. I would like to discuss my dinner experience this evening. After John nearly made me soil my pants I actually helped him cook a meal. I know what you're thinking: 'Good job Hamish, being a good son and actually practicing viable life skills'. I know, thank you. It's a big step for me.

"Since Sherlock wasn't home at the time it was just me and John for dinner and I chose… wait for it… Spaghetti! Yay spaghetti! That is until the aforementioned spaghetti helped John showcase his true spectacularity as a father at my expense.

"I usually cut up my spaghetti into smaller pieces because when I don't I use so much energy that by the time I'm done eating I'm hungrier than when I started. I had a handsome fork-full and it slid quite gracefully back into my bowl. I said 'It's too slippery!' I think we can all guess what John said." I nod.

"Yep. That's right. He said 'that's what she said'. I was made into a bowl of spaghetti's bitch _by my own father_. And that's just a little embarrassing, but not so much as it is humbling to the high and mighty power that _is_ Dr. John Hamish Watson. (That's where my name came from, by the way.)

"So that's it for this week, guys. Don't forget to like, subscribe if you want… all that other sh*t and what not… Leave a comment of when your elder proved they have more swag than you. And remember; if you see me in public, don't forget to come up to me and ask me to be your wife. I love you all a whole bunch! See you next time!"

Once the editing is done it's about 11:00pm. It's Friday night so it's not like I have to go and get an education in the morning. I yawn and put my laptop away. Xenon has been asleep at the end of my bed for a solid four hours.

I nest myself in a cocoon of my comforter. I close my eyes and imagine things I'd like to happen. Before I realize it I'm asleep, dreaming sweet dreams about family picnics and murder.

* * *

I'm rudely removed from my peaceful slumber by John shaking me back to reality.

"Morning, Sunshine!" he says cheerily.

"_Ugh!_" I groan. "Go _away_, John!" He laughs. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?"

"I can see that, but you're not sleeping anymore. We've got a case."

I lift my head and look at my clock-radio. It's 8:32am. I scowl at him. "Can't you just go without me?"

John just raises his eyebrows.

I sigh. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

"Fine," I say as I slide out of bed. I throw on some not necessarily clean clothes, hastily brush my teeth, grab my camera and meet John and Sherlock downstairs. My official job at crime scenes is to take pictures for Sherlock; partially because he doesn't like the ones the forensics team takes, bus mostly it's an excuse to get me in.

Sherlock's foot is tapping impatiently. John smiles at me.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock says, annoyed.

"I just got up. I haven't even eaten anything yet!"

Sherlock is first out the door. He gets in the driver's seat. John and I follow together. As I walk I get out my wallet and hand John a one pound note. He gives me a confused look.

"This case better fucking worth it."

* * *

We pull up in front of a shabby fixer-upper in Hoxton about a half hour after we leave. If you don't know already know, Hoxton is basically London's Hipsterville. Skinny jeans. Weird graffiti. _Strip clubs_. Ew.

I step out of the car. I glance around and see three girls about my age approximately thirty meters away. They talk to each other while looking worriedly at the police tape. They meet my glance and I quickly look away.

Women are _completely foreign_ to me. My only aunt rarely visits and one of my grandmothers travels quite frequently, while the other lives far enough away that we don't visit often. I literally have no viable experience around girls my age. They frighten me. A lot.

I stand with my parents as they discuss the situation with Lestrade. Sherlock throws some insults around, John scolds him, and I giggle. The three girls start to walk over they stop on the far side of John and Sherlock from me. A brunette with medium length hair speaks up.

"What's happened?" she asks Lestrade.

"We've got the situation under contro-" he begins before Sherlock interrupts.

"There's been a vicious double homicide some time between 11:00pm and 1:00am. Lestrade and his men clearly don't possess the skill required to properly handle the situation, even one as basic as this. Clearly the killer got in by climbing up a ladder to the roof and climbed through the attic window. He then proceeded to carry out his plan and exit through the front door, and rather hastily at that."

"How can you possibly know that?" John challenges him.

The edges of Sherlock's lips turn up into a slight smile. "If you look closely you can see the dents in the gutter from where the ladder was propped up against it. The killer wasn't careful about it; he was in a hurry – now what would make you pressed for time?" he mused quietly to himself.

"How do you know he got in through the attic and not another window?"

"You can see where he's scratched it the sides of it. It's also slightly crooked from when he tried to replace it. In addition yesterday evening's rain hasn't touched the scratches, so that means it must have broken in when enough of the water had evaporated and there wasn't enough to touch the scratches."

"Really? Water and scratches? That's all you've got?" John says skeptically.

"Problem?"

John shakes his head. "No, just checking."

"Just so you know, Anderson said the victims have been dead about nine hours or so." I add confidently.

Anderson gives me a dirty look. I smile like jerk I am. "I didn't tell you that, you little punk!"

"I read your lips. You should speak more clearly because it also seemed like you said 'they have flying super powers'."

"Nine hours…" Sherlock says softly, almost to himself.

"Yep. But that's assuming you trust Anderson to accurately measure the period between their time of death and now."

"Hamish…" John cautions me and gives me a look.

"What? It's the truth." I shrug.

"That's a pound, young man." Remember how I said there's a swear jar? Well, we have a rude jar, too. The swear jar is for John because he curses a lot. The rude jar is for Sherlock because, well, you know. I get to contribute to both because I inherited enough of both of them from growing up in their care. When they're full, we have a family meeting and decide what to do with it; a nice meal out, charity, it's something different every time.

I pull out my wallet as Sherlock is granted access to the scene. I pinch a one pound note and hand it begrudgingly to John.

"Thank you," he says and proceeds catching up with his husband. I try to follow, but he stops me and tells me to stay outside the tape until he or Sherlock comes to get me. I sigh and roll my eyes.

I wait, impatiently tapping my foot. I suck in a deep breath then let it out into a deep sigh of exasperation. Suddenly I hear a female voice say "Hello".

Ah, shit.

I look up, absolutely terrified. I see pretty blonde girl who appears to be looking at me. I glance behind me to make she's not addressing someone else who just happens to be outside my line of sight.

There's no one.

"M-Me?" I ask meekly.

"Yeah." She nods. "What's your name, then?"

I falter. "Uh-H-Hamish." That's my name, right? Oh, Jesus…

"I'm Lily."

"Hi," I say and wave a little. She giggles a bit, just further proof that I'm less than inept at talking at girls. Why is this so difficult?

"That's a nice camera. What kind is it?"

"It's a Canon 600D."

"Oh," she pauses for a moment. We stand uncomfortable for a few moments. I gaze desperately at the particles of awkward floating around us and press my lips together.

"So, what are you doing here anyway?" she continues. It sounds like a command.

"I'm here with my parents. They're crime scene consultants." I'm allowed to talk about this, right? "My father likes me to take pictures for him because he thinks the forensics team misses almost everything important."

"Why does he think that?"

"Because they do," Sherlock interjects matter-of-factly.

"But they're professionals, aren't they?" she defends.

He laughs once and exits the tape. "Come along, Hamish."

"What, we're leaving already?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"No one noticed the handgun."

I stop, completely dumbfounded. "Handgun? Are you fucking serious?"

"Of course I'm serious and don't let John hear you cursing like that. You'll be broke before day's end."

I see John coming out the front door and walks over to me with a slightly embarrassed expression. Lestrade joins him and they chat a little on the way.

Once they make it here, Sherlock says "Lestrade, do try and conduct a thorough search of the premises before calling me in the future."

Lestrade opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it.

"You!" I say and point an accusing finger at John. "You did this! It's your fault I'm not asleep right now!"

"I'm sorry, Hamish."

"Sorry's not going repair my sleep cycle, now is it?" I cross my arms and press my lips together.

"Alright, calm down. I said I'm sorry. Quit being so dramatic!" he replies, becoming exasperated.

"Dramatic? Do I need to remind you who fathered me?"

"Nope," he says as he shakes I his head, a smile begins to form. Lily giggles. John looks over at her. "Hello, there," John says with his hand outstretched, trying to be friendly.

"Hi, I'm Lily." She shakes his hand.

"John."

"I was just talking with Hamish for a while," she says as she gestures toward me. I sigh and roll my eyes.

"Really! That's a bit surprising." He glances at me.

"Why is that?" This girl really isn't shy about asking questions.

"Oh, well, he's just a bit shy."

"I'm not shy; girls just terrify me, that's all!" I correct them. "No offense," I say nervously to Lily. "Can we just go please?" I'm desperate now.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Lily."

"You, too."

"Right! Let's go home and listen to some dubstep!" I say a little too enthusiastically. Where the fuck did that come from?

"What?" Sherlock asks as his eyebrows furrow.

"Dubstep? It's like a mix between annoying euro-trash dance club music and the sound of robots taking over the world while having sex." It comes out like a question.

Sherlock just looks more confused than before my strange explanation.

"No? Okay. Let's just… go."

Lily giggles again. "Bye, Hamish!"

"Oh, um… bye…" I manage to get out and wave a little.

I get in the car; my parents follow. "You are the worst person in the world," I say to John once the doors are closed. He laughs and shakes his head.

I peer out the window and notice a tall girl leaning against a tree. She has colorful hair and is wearing dark lipstick. She seems to be staring at me from under her lashes, but I can't be sure. I face the front of the car then glance back.

She's gone.

* * *

We arrive home; I'm remarkably pissed. How doth one go about overlooking a fucking handgun? Honestly, though? It completely amazes me that a team of trained forensic professionals and policemen could miss something as critically obvious as a handgun. I could still be sleeping right now. Or cooking a soufflé. Or composing an opera. Or conducting the genetic experimentation necessary to create a unicorn (all I really need is horse eggs and narwhal sperm. If I add in some genes from an eagle I could probably make a Pegasus).

This is pointless. I go upstairs to my room and upload my YouTube video from last night. I'm still angry. I get up and go downstairs where I know there's an audience for whom I can bitch.

I drape myself across the sofa where John is sitting. He automatically lifts his laptop out of my way then replaces it on my back.

"I hate handguns."

John chuckles and continues typing.

"How do you miss a handgun? How, John? I don't- I can't-" I struggle for words to describe my dumbfoundedness. "What you doing, then?" I ask, distracted by the computer on my back.

"Blog," John says, still typing away.

"Really? You back at it?" John had stopped blogging after I was born. Mostly because I kept him good and busy, but also because he and Sherlock took a bit of a break from cases and he didn't want to blog about family stuff at that point. Once I was old enough to entertain myself he'd kind of forgotten about it, as did the public, it would seem.

He did an interview on some talk show recently and the hostess asked him if he'd ever get back to blogging. He said he would and thanked her for reminding him.

"What's this entry about?"

"Just catching everyone up on what's happened over the past fifteen years or so."

"Does that include me?"

"'Course it does," he replies. He smiles while ruffling my hair.

"Why does everyone love touching my hair so much?" I speculate.

"'Cause it's soft," John says matter-of-factly.

"Doesn't mean you get to feel it," I grumble. I try to get up, but John catches me in a headlock before I can get anywhere. He furiously rubs his hand on my head. I squirm and try to shove him off. It's no use. My hair day just went from shitty to really shitty.

When he's done, I sit up and catch a glance of myself in the mirror on the other side of the sitting room. Oh my.

"You've ruined my do; I hope you're happy," I say to John as I try to sort out the mess atop my head. He laughs.

He sets aside his laptop and walks to the kitchen table. "Go get Sherlock; we're having a family meeting."

"But the jars aren't even half full yet!"

"It's not about the jars."

Oh, shit. This can't be good.

I fetch Sherlock. He's in his loffice.

"I have some news," John says flatly when we get to the table.

"If you don't mind, John," I interrupt, "there's something I'd like to say first."

"Certainly. Go right ahead."

With a straight face, I pick up one of each of their hands and look both of them in the eye. "Sherlock, John..." I pause dramatically for a moment, and then continue. "... I'm straight."

"Well, we knew that," Sherlock says. "You were saying, John?"

"Right," he begins but doesn't say anything more for a moment. It appears he's looking for the right words.

I raise my eyebrows as if to say "Well, get on with it!"

"We're moving to Canada."

**A/N:** Thanks for reading guys, I hope you liked it! Please review and let me know what you think!


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